


Asphyxi-Fate 4.5: The Christmas Episode

by victorchewitsshouldntdothis



Series: Asphyxi-Fate [5]
Category: Deadly Premonition | Red Seeds Profile
Genre: Christmas episode, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-13
Updated: 2018-12-13
Packaged: 2019-09-17 13:38:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16975587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/victorchewitsshouldntdothis/pseuds/victorchewitsshouldntdothis
Summary: After years of putting up with Harry Stewart's idea of Christmas, which largely constitutes shouting at the sky and insisting that trees barely belong outside, let alone decorated and in the house, Michael has come to hate the season. His boyfriend does not feel the same way, and he is determined to show Michael a good time when the day arrives. Even if Michael fights him every step of the way.





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> Whoops!

Although he tried to fight it, Michael realised that he was awake. His long-running habit of waking up at six in the morning refused to let him sleep in for long. He moaned weakly to himself and rolled the pillow over his face. Just in time to feel a sudden dead weight land on his chest. Michael choked and scrambled around, only to see Victor planted on top of him, his eyes glinting with excitement.

“Come on!” he insisted, shaking Michael’s shoulder impatiently. “Of all the days to choose for a lie in. God.” Michael groaned and let his head sink back into the pillow, shutting his eyes.

“I was tired,” he lied. “What time is it? You’re never awake this early.” He received another shake of his shoulder for that effort.

“It’s like eight,” Victor said. “And it’s _Christmas day_.” It was. That was the force that had been keeping Michael in bed later than he would ever consider reasonable on any other day. This had never been his favourite time of the year. Not even scratching the top ten, really. Before he was adopted, Christmas time had just been a painful reminder that he was on his own. Afterwards, it was a time for Harry Stewart to rant on about how miserable he was to have lost his first family, a time to vent his regrets to an audience of one. Neither situation had much inspired Michael to feel the love. Any happier memories from his first few years of life were lost to the void. Even last year, the Christmas a few months after he and Victor had met, had been wasted. Harry had suddenly changed his tune at the thought of Michael having the holiday with his boyfriend. After six years of silent, bitter meals followed by hours of rueing his losses, he had insisted that Michael choose to spend the day with him. Victor’s overeager plans were interrupted for several hours while Michael scurried off to the Stewart mansion to eat what turned out to be just as gloomy a meal as every other year. Victor had made his disappointment clear as well. The whole event had not put a shine on the holiday season.

This year, considering the question Victor had asked him last month, he had told his father he could not make it for dinner. Harry had not been pleased, but it had been overshadowed by the general bad mood he had been in since Michael had told him about the engagement. Michael doubted he was thinking about much else lately. He had been wary about how Harry would react, and surprised that Victor had, for once, seemed eager to share the news for them both. It was only when Victor started talking about how Harry was the one person he could not wait to tell, and imagining the reaction he would get, that Michael realised he was looking forward to a fight. He had opted to tell his father on his own, and the silence he had got in response would haunt him for years to come. At least it meant that their Christmas plans had been the last thing on his mind.

Victor shifted on top of him and Michael cycled in and out of being able to breathe. He pushed his unruly morning hair out of his face, and let his eyes adjust properly to the scene. Victor had a glass in his hand, one of the fancier ones that Michael had brought over in the hopes of getting rid of the chipped, mismatched few that had been the only ones in the house when he first arrived. So far, the old glasses were still winning that fight. Victor took a long slug and sighed.

“Are you already drinking?” Michael asked, bathing his boyfriend in an aura of casual disdain.

“As I believe I said, it’s Christmas.” Victor knocked back another drink. “Want one?” Michael sighed, but he reached out when Victor passed him a glass he had had waiting beside the bed. He let Victor pour something fizzy and sweet for him and sipped it, tasting caramel. Followed by a fairly hefty dose of alcohol.

“You’re not supposed to drink with your medication,” Michael reminded him. He had brought it up before, several times, but this time he was hoping to distract them both from the fact that he was joining in with one of Victor’s bad habits. And at eight in the morning, at that.

“Well, I'm pretty sure you're not supposed to eat dairy, but that's never stopped you from stealing my pizza,” Victor replied snottily, drinking again to spite him. He finished the glass and put it down on the floor, the excitement firmly back in his face. “Anyway, come on. We have a whole day ahead of us. Drink up!” Michael sipped from his glass conservatively, staring off to the side. He did wonder why the season inspired so much joy in Victor. He knew his boyfriend had not had the happiest family, either. Asking would be over the line, though. He would feel like he was jeopardising something pure. Even if it was not his favourite day of the year, he did not want to spoil it for Victor. He put the glass down on the nightstand, feeling the slight buzz it had given him bringing some warmth into the morning.

Michael was about to say something, when Victor shifted again, and landed a knee in an unfortunate spot. He cried out in distress and Victor quickly slid off him, onto the bed itself.

“Be careful with me!” he said. “You can’t just sit on my… ugh.” He decided to try and cling onto his dignity instead of outright telling Victor not to slam into his bladder. It did not matter.

“Go and piss then, morning glory. I have to get breakfast ready, anyway.” Michael sighed at Victor and began to claw his way out of the covers that he was all tangled up inside. Today really was going to be the opposite of everything he was used to.

“You cooked…?” he asked innocently. Victor snorted.

“Someone did,” he answered. “I brought it into the house.” That sounded more likely. Michael shook his head, feeling a smile brewing, and left for the bathroom.

When he returned, he saw that Victor had laid out a box full of pastries and doughnuts on the bed. He was already eating one of them, without a plate, curled up against the pillows. Michael was torn. If nothing else, he knew he was going to have to change the sheets to get the crumbs out first thing tomorrow. On the top of that, eating that much sugar right after waking up seemed unwise. His instinct was to say something, and decline to take part. Yet he found himself climbing up next to Victor , tucking his legs under the covers, and picking out something with custard in it without a single complaint. Victor smiled over at him, with a lick of chocolate forgotten below his lip. Michael leant over and wiped at it with his thumb.

There was something very comforting about sitting in bed like this, eating breakfast. Something Michael did not think he had ever quite felt before. But then, he could not remember a time when he had eaten food in bed. His morning routine was usually much more organised. Still being in his pyjamas after eight was unheard of. Chewing, he looked back at Victor, who was doing the same, staring into space. He was wearing some worn old plaid trousers and a dark t-shirt advertising a possibly fictional dive bar. An outfit that clashed in all senses with Michael’s matching baby blue pyjama set, that still looked basically new. They had a lot of differences. That had not changed as they had got to know each other better. What had happened, however, was that they had more moments like this. More quiet moments of connection where those differences did not matter. Michael helped himself to another offering from the pastry box, repressing a smile.

“Okay, okay,” Victor said, when they were both full. “It’s time for presents!” He heaved the now depleted box onto the floor, the last scraps inside bouncing as they fell, and wiped his hands on his pyjamas. Michael said nothing, watching him with a warm feeling in his chest. He was going to blame it on that syrupy drink that he had taken another sip of to wash down breakfast. Though he knew there was a different blonde responsible for how he was feeling right now, even if the two shared a similar alcohol content.

“You’ve done a good job of hiding whatever this gift is,” Michael said. Of course, he would never have looked. Not on purpose. He just happened to tidy up around the house often, and occasionally came across a box he happened to accidentally peek inside. Victor must have been onto his tricks, because while he had found plenty of possible hiding places that almost felt set up for him, he had not seen a trace of any presents. Michael had never cared for surprises. He liked to know everything. Victor was a brick wall to that attitude, however, and refused to be easily separated from his secrets.

Victor bounded out of bed like an excited housecat and ran through to the kitchen. Michael followed out of burning curiosity, even when Victor called back for him to wait in bed. Still, Michael hung around and watched as Victor opened the cupboard where he stored the various half empty bottles of vodka that he bought whenever there was a sale, and which he opened indiscriminately. He pulled a few of them out to reveal a plastic bag that, seemingly, only contained more bottles. However, reaching inside, past the clinking glass, he revealed a squishy wrapped package. A good hiding place, Michael had to admit.

“Go back on through,” Victor said, and Michael obeyed. He returned to the bed and planted himself up, wondering what the surprise would turn out to be. The waiting was impatient, and he sat, fiddling with his hair, eager to find out. Victor reappeared and sat by Michael’s feet, grinning as he handed over the package. Michael took it, gently squeezing it in his fingers, noting the familiar feel of fabric inside. Though he hated to judge without opening the gift, he was wary. Harry always gave him clothes, usually with very little thought put in. Just something expensive that he could not reasonably be ungrateful for. He would be surprised if Victor had gone down the same route, as he was sure he had talked to him before about how he felt whenever he was faced with opening another of his father’s superficial gifts. Something that looked good on the outside, but meant nothing. That was the crux of it, all right.

Michael carefully tore open the paper, and inside there was indeed something for him to wear. He held it up in front of him, lip twitching. It was a t-shirt, with ‘I’M ALWAYS RIGHT’ written across the chest in cursive handwriting. He looked at Victor and raised his eyebrow. In response, Victor pulled the shirt he had been wearing over his head, to reveal the other half of the set. ‘I’M ALWAYS WRONG’ was written in much sloppier text across the front. Michael’s twitching lip turned into a smile.

“We match,” Victor announced proudly. “I put it on when you were in the bathroom. What do you think? Now everyone will know before you even say anything.” Michael let out a laugh.

“I suppose they will. If they don’t already.” Victor leaned over and licked his face and he cried out, squirming out of reach. The two of them giggled together, watching the other’s eyes. After a moment, Michael looked back at his gift, holding it close to him and absentmindedly thumbing the fabric.

“One other thing as well,” Victor said. This time, he reached under the mattress and groped for something, while Michael wondered just how many other things he had secreted away in this place. He had thought of himself as shrewd, but was beginning to think he needed to up his game to take on the champ. Victor yanked out a slightly crumpled magazine and handed it over, unwrapped. Michael took it.

“This is a bridal magazine,” he said, stating the obvious. The glossy cover gave it away. “Where did you get this? Don’t tell me you bought it.”

“As if!” Victor snorted. “I took it from a hairdresser’s. And it’s just a _joke_ , to be clear. Don’t go getting all bride of Frankenstein on me. I thought it would be _funny_.” Paranoid assurances out of the way, he let himself relax. Michael flicked briefly through the pages, taking in snapshots of the pictures inside. The gift was stupid, but it had achieved its intended purpose. He had a warm smile fixed on his face, thinking of where they might be this time next year. Secure, happy. Just how he had always wanted it to be. Possibly with central heating that actually worked right.

“I have something for you,” Michael said, suddenly remembering that that was how it worked. He turned pointedly to Victor, who narrowed his eyes with a smirk and a little shake of his head.

“Is it invisible?” he asked. “Was the gift inside of me all along?”

“No,” Michael sighed, letting his eyes roll back in his head. “But I’m afraid I don’t have anything for you to unwrap.” Victor waited as he went on, clearing his throat. “I know how attached you are to that old truck of yours. I also know that it is going to die as soon as your back is turned. To further delay the day that you have to finally face that fact, I spoke to Mr. St… my father’s personal mechanic. The one who handles all the upkeep on the limo, and his classic cars. He agreed to take a look at your truck, which is a big personal favour. He never works on anything that cost less than the down payment on a mortgage.” He could see Victor’s grin spreading, watch the joy coming into his face, and pushed on, supressing a smile of his own, while he still had the chance to talk. “You will have to drive it over to him, but he did take a cursory look recently while you were out of the house. He promised me personally that he could get the awful thing to run like new again. You will have plenty of years with it yet… much to my dismay.”

Before he could say anything else, he found himself flat against the wall, Victor pressed tightly against him, kissing him. Michael joined in as soon as he regained his balance. Victor had his hands in his hair, his tongue in his mouth, and his leg placed carelessly between Michael’s thighs. This was more like it. This was the kind of holiday distraction Michael was all too ready for.

When Victor pulled away, Michael grabbed him and pulled him back in. He was not going to let his boyfriend go that easily. His fiancé, now, something he was not used to saying. Not least because Victor refused the title at any given opportunity. Regardless, in this moment, whether they had been married for forty years, or Victor had just been a stranger sitting next to him at a bar, he would have jumped him regardless. The urge was overwhelming. This day was always frustrating for him. It felt good to find an outlet for it.

“What’s your hurry?” Michael murmured. “You don’t need to worry. We have some time.” Victor fixed him with one of his awkward smiles, the ones that only climbed halfway up his face before starting to collapse, and glanced away.

“But… it’s _Christmas day_.” Victor said it with a kind of terrified reverence that made it seem like Michael had suggested they have sex at a funeral. On top of the casket.

“Does that matter?” Michael asked. He ran his hands slowly across Victor’s chest, hoping to distract him. “You smell good. It’s not as if we have anywhere to be, and you did wake us up nice and early.”

“People don’t have sex on _Christmas day_ , Michael,” Victor gasped. “I don’t think anyone would _dare_. It’s like… perverse.” Michael now felt the need to glare at him a little.

“Yes, except perhaps anyone who lives in the part of the world not bombarded with holiday nonsense from the first of October. Or perhaps just those who are not religious. _Like us_.” Michael’s frustration was met with nothing but a serene shake of Victor’s head.

“But what about the spirit of Christmas, Michael?” he asked, apparently seriously. “Are you even thinking about that?”

“Perhaps someone forgot to tell you,” Michael sighed impatiently. “But the spirit of Christmas was best known as Jesus Christ. The name of the holiday is somewhat revealing. And as an atheist, I have never felt the need to consider whether or not he would want me to sleep with another man on his imaginary birthday!” He could not believe this was an argument he was having in the real world.

“Oh, not that,” Victor scoffed, flicking his wrist. “No, the spirit of Christmas. Like, advent calendars and tree decorations and twinkly lights and picking out gifts for people. That warm feeling you get spending time with the people you love, or are supposed to love. The spirit of Christmas. The feeling like it might actually be all right, even if you do only get to feel it for two months of your year…”

They were suddenly in a dangerous situation. Michael could hear the slight tension in Victor’s voice, and knew that if he was not careful, they would end up spending the next two hours having a tearful conversation in bed. Victor would start off about the terrible things his family had done to each other one year, how they had all come together for dinner and it had almost seemed like things could be fine for them after all. The memory would start Michael off and he would be crying before he knew it about some until-then forgotten story of sitting in a busy communal room at ten years old, writing a letter asking for his parents back. Before they knew it, they would be swamped in tissues and snot, and he would not have even come close to getting any. Unacceptable.

“Listen, Victor. If you don’t want to, because of the… spirit of Christmas…” He hated that those words were coming out of his mouth. “That’s all right. But if you’d prefer, you could share some of that warm feeling with someone you love right now.” A slight smirk. “Maybe then I could compromise and agree to you having… barbeque sauce… on the table during dinner.” He shivered. Victor raised his eyebrows, the potential descent into misery forgotten.

“Well… you _did_ get me a very good gift,” he said, convincing himself. He leant in again and Michael wrapped his arms around his shoulders, expectant. “And I guess we do have all day…”

“Now that’s the spirit,” Michael said, with a soft laugh.


	2. Two

Michael was in a much better mood afterwards, as he slipped the t-shirt Victor had given him over his head. He brushed his hair back into place with his hands, and watched Victor playing archaeologist in the pile of shirts and sweaters roughly shoved into the bottom of the wardrobe. A grinning face emerged a moment later, and he held up two of the ugliest jumpers Michael had ever seen. Worse, he seemed proud of himself for having the foresight to have brought them into their home.

“Here you go,” Victor sung, handing one of the things over. Michael reached out gingerly and took it, unfurling the mass of green that he was hoping would somehow turn out to actually be a bag of grass clippings. Unfortunately, he was forced to admit that Victor actually expected him to wear a holiday sweater.

“No,” Michael said. His voice was as flat as cardboard, and he did not take his eyes off the monstrous thing that Victor had offered him with such joy.

“Come on, now,” Victor insisted, with the grin refusing to leave his face. “You always complain about the cold anyway. Put it on. We’ll be like twins.” He set about yanking his own jumper, a bright cherry red, over his head.

“You _are_ a twin,” Michael reminded him dryly. His hands did not move. Victor’s face reappeared with a sigh.

“Well, yes,” he agreed. “But just the normal kind.” Before Michael could ask a follow up question, Victor was there, gently toying with a strand of his hair. Michael shivered at the feeling, and eased his face away. He was still sensitive. “Not even after _that_? I gave you my A-game. You wouldn’t do it for me…?” Those big blue eyes just had to come out. The jumper danced about in Michael’s fingers as his sense of taste debated with the part of him that was still a sucker for some friendly manipulation. In the end, as ever, he gave in.

“You win,” Michael muttered, accepting his fate, before beginning the process of adjusting the far-too-big jumper about his skinny frame. “You’re lucky you were so… convincing.”

“Everybody has to have a talent,” Victor said, smirking to himself. Arms folded over the wall of snowmen sprayed across his knitted chest.

The two of them, appropriately dressed for the day, headed through to the living room. Victor had sparsely decorated the place to his own standards weeks ago. There was a spindly plastic tree standing against one wall, absolutely, back-breakingly soaked through with tinsel and plastic toys that did not match. Not with one another, nor the tree itself. There was some more tinsel scattered about the room like the shed skins of an uncomfortably seasonal species of lizard. Otherwise, everything was much like it always was. Victor flattened himself into the sofa, throwing an arm over the back, and waiting for Michael to join him. He did, and found that the arm sprung on him as soon as he sat down, yanking him up against Victor’s shoulder as if he had been caught in a trap.

“I bet there’s some good crap on TV today,” Victor said, switching the thing on. “What’s your favourite holiday movie?”

“I don’t really care,” Michael muttered, burying his cheek into Victor’s chest, and appreciating, despite himself, how soft the jumper was to rest against.

“You’re really resistant to letting the spirit of the season inside you, huh?” Victor shot back dryly. Michael did not lift his head.

“I feel that letting you inside counts, don’t you?” he muttered. Victor’s chest shifted with a laugh.

“Someone deserves some coal for that one,” he snorted, but was cut off by the sudden sound of the phone ringing. Michael jerked back to life and Victor hopped up from the sofa to grab it. Michael muted the TV and waited for him to pass the phone over. Whenever it went, it was for him. That was always the case. Apparently not today.

Victor held the phone to his ear, listening, wearing a weak and wavering smile on his face. Michael watched him impatiently, waiting to hear who it was. It seemed unlikely that it was one of his friends from town, and even less likely that it was someone calling about Victor’s casual definition of ‘work’. Not today, anyway. He continued to wonder, thoughts flying frantically around inside his head, until Victor responded to the voice on the other line, and Michael’s eyes widened in surprise.

“Yeah, yeah, of course, mum. Merry Christmas. Just at home, yeah. No, no, I’m not lonely, don’t worry about me!” He laughed uncomfortably and turned his back, as casually as he could pretend to be, to Michael.

Michael was shocked. In all this time, the more than a year that they had been together, he had not overheard Victor talk to his family once. Considering everything he knew about them and his relationship to them, he was not surprised. He knew that Victor had not returned to see them since they had gone back to England, and he knew that there was enough bitterness leftover from the incident to start a brewery. Specifically, he was sure that Victor had told him more than once that he had not spoken to his father since they had last seen each other in person. Perhaps things had changed.

“I’ll eat enough. I said don’t worry about me! I _can_ cook.”

Michael had his doubts about that last point. More importantly, he was, as far as he was aware, going to be cooking for the both of them today without the aid of a sous-chef. Victor did not seem interested in mentioning that part to his mother.

“It’s only like ten, mum. Yeah, in the morning. Why, what time is it there? Six! Fu–! I mean, hell. You’ve had your whole day.”

Victor firmly maintained the distance between Michael and the world at the other end of the phone line by keeping his back squarely turned towards him. Michael wished he could overhear what was being said. He was burning with curiosity. He would run Victor through with questions when he was off the phone. There was a longer silence while Victor listened. His shoulders tightened as he did so, and he swung back and forth at the waist, fiddling the handset from side to side, ear to ear.

“Is that right?” he asked stiffly. “No, you don’t need to say anything from me. Oh, did he? Did he _really_ , mum? All right, if you say so. I know, I know. But I just… oh, you know.” He sighed. “Look, not today. Yeah, if it’ll make you happy. Just tell him I said Happy Christmas. Don’t say anything else. Mum? _I mean it_.”

That exchange was easier to decode than most. Michael ended up looking away, slumping back into the sofa, unable to shake a slight sting of guilt about being there to spy on what he had just heard.

“Okay, well, I should get going. Yeah, you know. Cooking times.” Victor twisted about on the spot and accidentally caught Michael’s eye, before turning away sharply. “Sorry. Sure, we can talk soon. Yeah, Merry Christmas. Wait, no! Don’t put Anna on. I don’t want to take her away from whatever she’s doing! Seriously, it’s… all right, fine.” He pressed the knuckles of his free hand to his brow and shut his eyes.

Michael dug further into the sofa and began looking very carefully at his nails for the want of something to distract himself. Even the mention of Victor’s sister’s name left him feeling more than a little uncomfortable. Their one, brief meeting had, he would say, been disastrous.

“Hey, Anna,” Victor sighed. “You could have said no. Oh, don’t start! We talked last week. It’s been fine, it’s only the morning. Yours? How’s the old man been acting?” There was a pause while he listened, stiff-shouldered again. “That fun, huh. I don’t envy you. Shut up! He’s fine. No, shockingly, he hasn’t dumped me yet. Oh, fuck off.” When Victor shifted his face into sight, Michael could just make out that he was grinning, before he rotated back again. “You’ll have to put up with it, he’s not going anywhere. Yeah, obviously, it’s not like I’d cook, you know me. Pretty good. Fuck off! Okay seriously, I’m getting off the line. I swear to god, Anna, if you put our mam back on, I’ll come over there and throw you in the sea. You bet I’ll fucking walk! Yeah, yeah, you too. Happy Christmas, my favourite sister.”

With that, he hung the phone up and came back to the sofa. Before Michael could say a word, as he was clearly bursting to do, Victor grabbed the TV remote and turned the sound back on, and up. Michael’s thoughts were drowned out by a sudden chorus of bells screaming over some commercial, but he was never one to be so easily dissuaded. He hammered the volume button with his finger until the damn thing was just a burble in the background.

“Was that your family?” he asked, staring intently at Victor, who looked ahead at the television, trying to pretend he was not there.

“You’ve cracked the case,” he muttered back. “Well done. TV to celebrate?”

“I did not realise you talked to them much anymore…” Michael said, hinting heavily. Victor sighed, realising or admitting that he was not getting out of answering. He turned to face Michael, ground down and frowning.

“I talk to my mam and sister sometimes. Probably not as much as I should do. I’m sure you knew that.” Michael had absolutely not known that, and suspected that Victor had made the calls when he was not around on purpose, so that they would not have to have a conversation about it. He could understand, sort of. Even if he did not, he forced himself to empathise. There was a lot of history there, and if Victor was not ready to sit through a painful conversation detailing the ins and outs of it all, then he would have to understand that. There was, however, one thing he was quite interested in finding out the answer to.

“Do they know that we’re engaged?” he asked. He had an idea what the truth might be.

“Oh, shit, I forgot! Do you want to watch Black Christmas later?” Victor sent the volume back up on the TV with a feverish grin. “I heard it’s on this evening. You’d probably like it. It was made before 1990.” There was no chance of getting anything else out of him for now. Michael recognised the brick wall act when he saw it. There would be time to nudge later, but even he admitted that this was not something to waste the whole day on.

“What happens in it?” he asked, settling back in against Victor’s shoulder to disappear into the warm glow of the television.

“It’s about the merits of higher education,” Victor answered. “Oh, don’t forget you have to call your dad later.” Michael groaned. That was true, but he had been hoping to forget about it. Harry was bound to be in one of his terrible moods today, and would be unpleasant to talk to. Still, he had promised he would call. It was the only way Harry would have let him stay with Victor for all of Christmas day.

“He’ll take whatever mood he’s in out on me,” Michael muttered, tucking in tighter against Victor, hoping that might somehow save him from his fate. “Christmas always brings everything to the surface.”

“Doesn’t it just,” Victor scoffed. “Well, you still have to do it. You don’t want him showing up at our door like Michael Myers fresh outta the ward.” Michael shuddered. That was always a terrifying possibility. Money talked, and Harry would be able to find someone to bring him over if he wanted to come. One of his hourly-paid caterers for the day would probably leap at the chance to make a quick hundred-dollar tip just for ferrying their miserable boss across town.

The idea of Harry forcing himself into their cramped living room, looking with mild revulsion at the mess and the cheap decorations, and beginning to lay down a carpet of barbs underneath their way of life did not sound too appealing. And he would do. Harry had no tact. He did not need it. It took all of Michael’s diplomacy to try and make up for his father’s utter disregard for everyone around him. Luckily, while Harry had no restraint, Victor seemed to take no offence to any of his jabs. The two of them almost seemed to enjoy arguing with each other whenever they were in the same room. Michael would never understand it. He always found it stressful to try and keep them from killing each other.

“I’ll call after dinner,” Michael said. By then, he might not be dreading it so much. Food would be a warm blanket to smother his sense of foreboding. “Now, what are we going to watch?”

“Fiddle with the channels a bit,” Victor said, gently pushing him off so he could get up. “I’m getting the booze and the chocolates. It’s not Christmas unless you’re sugar high.” Michael smiled at him as he went off to search, and began to browse lazily through the channel choices. Greenvale did not get the hugest selection in the world, and whatever they did end up with was bound to be grainy around the edges.

Victor returned with a plastic bag full of various chocolates, and dropped it gracelessly onto the floor between them. He sat back down and opened another bottle of sugary alcohol, sipping it directly. Glasses were apparently a luxury for the morning.

They ended up like that for a while, watching nothing special and paying very little attention to it. Victor had spread himself out in a line over Michael’s legs, but still bravely chose to drink from his bottle, choking every few attempts for a couple of dangerous seconds. He interrupted what little structure there was with stories that came out of nowhere about decades-old Christmases. It was the only time Michael had heard him talk about his family in even a slightly positive light. A lot of the stories were vague, but Michael did not mind that. He enjoyed the random stream of consciousness, the half-remembered snatches of decorations and songs and parties. It was something he had never had for himself, and he would admit to living vicariously through Victor’s few good memories while they lasted. Right now, and only now, they did not appear to be two broken halves of people struggling to hold each other up. They could pretend that they were normal people. Happy people. Michael could see why Victor liked this holiday so much. A lot of it was fake, but it was a fakeness that you could buy into. Something you could actually believe in, at least while you were in it.

As Victor recounted a story about walking down the harbourside and begging to be allowed to try some seasonal brandy, a story that he had to keep correcting as he remembered new parts of it, Michael reached for another piece of chocolate and put it in his mouth. He was concerned about how much of it he was eating. If he was unlucky, memories of his own teenage years would come back in force when his skin broke out from the mass of sugar he was forcing into his face. That would be just his luck. He doubted that Victor would spare him from being teased about it just because they were not sixteen-year-old boys anymore. The idea made him snort out loud, and he had to pretend it was a sneeze. Victor would have absolutely eaten him alive when they were younger. It was just as well they had not met back then.

Eventually, Michael forced himself up from the sofa to make a start on dinner. He had everything planned out just so, and nothing was going to stop him from putting together the perfect meal. This was his shining moment of the year. To his surprise, Victor followed him through to the kitchen. While Michael stood by the counter checking over the list he had made several weeks ago, Victor wrapped his arms around his waist and began to playfully bite his ear.

“Victor!” he scolded, trying to push him off. “I have to focus.”

“I won’t notice if you burn it all,” Victor scoffed back, pulling him in closer, pressing the front of his jeans firmly against Michael’s backside. “Give yourself the day off.”

“ _I’ll_ notice,” Michael shot back. Victor could not possibly believe that he would allow himself to ruin such a huge meal. It was out of the question. Victor sighed and released him, but did not leave the kitchen. He leaned against the counter next to Michael and went back to talking nonsense, dropping in jokes, and generally trying to win his attention away from the cooking. Michael resisted him. He would not be distracted. Victor took the occasional drink and hummed and got in the way as Michael began to dig out pans and preheat and slice and dice.

While Michael was tackling a stubborn onion, the phone began to ring again from the other room. Victor sighed, muttered something about how late it must be in England by now, and went to get it. Michael enjoyed the moment of peace the unexpected call had granted him. He enjoyed it all the way up to Victor announcing who was on the phone.

“Oh, hello, _Harry_ ,” he called out. Michael dropped the knife onto the chopping board. Fight or flight mode came over him immediately.

He had to make a choice. If he went to snatch the phone from Victor, then it would mean abandoning his cooking, and he was afraid of what could happen if he did. Everything was so carefully timed and planned out, he could not afford to take five minutes off. He would never live it down if he messed up their dinner. That said, leaving Victor alone on the phone with his father was a lot like dropping a Molotov cocktail into a children’s ball pit and walking away. The decision was paralysing.

“He can’t come to the phone right now. No, he’s got his hands full. Ha, believe me, if _that_ was what I meant, I wouldn’t have bothered picking up the phone at all.” Michael turned and sprinted through to the living room. Dinner could fend for itself. As he appeared so suddenly that he could have expected a cartoon puff of smoke to follow behind him, Victor glanced over with a grin.

“Give me the phone,” Michael mouthed, holding out his hand for it. Victor waved him off.

“How’s your day shaping up?” Victor asked the handset. He nodded along to the answer that Michael could not hear. “Sounds like a party. Don’t think I even know what that last one is. Watch you don’t get fat having all of that. You won’t be able to drag yourself up hills.”

Michael gestured again to be given the phone and Victor once again waved his hand away, turning around to continue his conversation in what could not even politely be called privacy.

“You what? No, I _don’t_ think I have. Yeah, I know it’s a side effect of the medication, but I hadn’t noticed that I put on any weight.” He was tapping his foot now. Michael took another step towards him, and Victor darted around the back of the sofa, forcing the phone cradle to spin around to follow him. “If you think so.” A mean smirk came over his face. “Well, only family could be that brutally honest with each other. So I guess I appreciate it, _dad_. One of us might as well call you that, right?”

Michael followed Victor round, but he doubled-back and escaped, keeping the phone tight against his ear without fail. Michael clicked his tongue, knowing that he was risking burnt potatoes for this infuriating back and forth.

“Yeah, we got a tree. Obvi– I did the decorating, why? Oh, I get it. You’re right, I guess I am the Christmas fairy. That’s funny, Harry. You know what’s even funnier than that is this morning, Michael and I f–”

Michael wrenched the phone out of his hand.

“Hello? Mr. Stewart?”

“Ah, Michael, is that you?” Harry asked from the other end. “Finally. What were you so busy with?”

“ _Dinner_ , Mr. Stewart. I was in the kitchen.” Michael glared at Victor, who was standing to the side, with his arms across his chest, smiling to himself. Amused but silent. Michael pointed in the direction of the kitchen, hoping Victor would at least go and keep an eye on things, but he sat down on the sofa instead and listened in, keeping his arms folded and his smile in place.

“Of course, I doubt you’ll have any help.” Michael did not reply. He had nothing to say that would put a dent in that judgemental tone. Harry was forced to continue when he realised Michael was not going to rise to the bait. “I’ll be waiting to eat for a while, I suspect. There’s no way to buy respect, Michael, you should remember that. You have to earn it, and the trouble is, young people today rarely care about anything past their own noses, not even when it’s their job to.” Perhaps Harry was planning on taking out some of today’s bitterness on the hapless caterers. If so, Michael did not envy them.

“I’m sorry,” he said, as compassionately as he could, knowing that he would have been on the receiving end of that same attitude this time last year. “Surely they’ll listen if you explain the problem.”

“Naïve as ever.” Harry sighed. “But no, it doesn’t matter. It’s only me here, after all. I can’t expect much when I’m going to be eating by myself.” Michael tensed up. He knew Harry well enough to know what he was hinting at. Despite their earlier agreement, he wanted Michael to drop everything and go over to see him.

“I… suppose not,” he said, sounding useless even to himself, but wary about saying anything that would give Harry an excuse to pressure him into rushing to the rescue.

“You know, Michael, I do miss having you around here.” They were not even going to dance around it, apparently. Michael bit his lip. “Your company means more to me than you realise. Even if you are only a short way away now. Yes, you could certainly be here at half an hour’s notice, but it still feels different. Do you understand?” He certainly did understand. He understood all those references to how easy it would be for him to stop by, for sure. It would be hard to miss them.

“That is the unfortunate thing about children leaving home, I suppose,” he mumbled. Harry sighed loudly down the line, a move that was likely to have been all the more dramatic in person.

“This is not just a case of empty nest syndrome, Michael,” Harry chided. “I have very little that I can rely on in my life, at this stage. And loneliness hits harder with age, as you’ll eventually find out. No, I merely feel that it’s telling where you have chosen to be, today of all days. Don’t you agree?” Michael looked desperately over at Victor. He glanced towards the phone and offered a shrug that raised the question of what on earth he was supposed to do now. Victor got up and walked through to the kitchen, abandoning him to the mercy of social pressure. Michael rolled his eyes back in his head before shutting them tightly. He was not strong enough to resist the mounting guilt.

“Well…” he began, with a sigh. Suddenly, Victor reappeared from the kitchen. He had a glass with him, and Michael recognised the contents as the deceptively alcoholic sugar slurry that Victor had been cautiously putting away all day. Before Michael could question it, Victor had pinched his nose, pulled his head back, and force-fed the shot of vodka cocktail down his throat. Michael began to cough, as the inside of his throat burned from the unexpected invasion.

“You can’t drive,” Victor whispered to him, patting his back.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Stewart.” He was forced to stop and cough again, before finally feeling his throat start to clear. “I wish I could come over there, but I’ve been drinking, and it would be irresponsible.” Victor shot him a thumbs up. There was the sound of a sharp scoff from the other side of the phone.

“At this time of day, that’s already irresponsible, Michael,” Harry said coldly. “I don’t want to think that you’ve been effected by a bad influence. I will have to keep my eye on things.” If that ‘bad influence’ had just saved him from hours of passive-aggressive silence and stilted conversation, then Michael was happy to reconsider his feelings on peer-pressure. “At any rate, I will let you go,” Harry went on, clearly unwilling to do the very thing that he was promising. “Have a good evening. And Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas,” Michael said, before hanging up the phone and feeling gratitude overwhelm him. He turned back to Victor and kissed him. For all of three seconds, before remembering he had left the food alone. “Ah!” he cried out, and dashed through to make up for the lapse of attention.


	3. Three

Saving his hard work was a delicate operation, but eventually Michael was satisfied with how the dinner had come out, and announced that they were ready to eat. Victor had been sitting at the table for the past ten minutes, whining like a cat whenever Michael looked in his direction. Michael had not allowed it to get to him, and had refused to rush. He brought the various plates over with a sense of pride, and quickly realised that there was no room to put everything down. He settled for laying dishes out on the counters while Victor drummed his fingers loudly against the wood of the table.

“When? When? When?” he chanted over and over.

“When it’s _done_ ,” Michael hissed at him. Victor sighed, letting out the breath as loudly as he could manage. Michael reminded himself that he would still rather be here than at the mansion. Impatience was technically a form of appreciation, in this context. Much better than random, biting critique.

“Finally! I’m going to die,” Victor sighed as Michael put a plate down in front of him.

“If you want more, you can help yourself,” Michael muttered. He sat down in his own chair opposite, picking up his fork. “I’m not going to get up again.”

“What if you want more?” Victor asked, sneering. Michael offered him a serene smirk.

“I’m smart enough to get it right the first time,” he answered.

True to his word, Michael was full by the time he finished his plate. As he wiped his mouth with a napkin, he found himself holding Victor’s eye. Victor, who had got up from the table a good five minutes before, was leaning with his back against the counter, picking up loose potatoes and eating them from the serving dish.

“At least look at what you’re doing,” Michael said, folding the napkin and placing it neatly on his plate. “Or you’ll end up eating the bacon.”

“The threat of bacon has never been enough to stop me from doing thoughtless shit before, Mickey,” Victor scoffed. “Unless they’ve started making it radioactive, it’s not gonna be enough now.” Michael rolled his eyes and got up, ready to tidy things away.

“You’re the vegetarian, not me,” he said. “It’ll be your funeral.”

“Not for another five years, give or take,” Victor muttered. “Anyway, you didn’t say anything about dessert. Is there cake? Ice cream? What did you make for us?” Michael stopped mid-cleaning and stared at him, while Victor popped another unattended, cold potato into his mouth and began to chew.

“You watched me cook everything. You were here the whole time. You think I made a secret dessert behind your back?”

“You didn’t get anything?! Where’s your Christmas spirit–”

“You _still_ want to eat something, after all that chocolate you ate earlier today?” Ignoring Michael’s disdain, Victor strode over to him.

“Don’t tell me you think I’m getting fat, too,” he said, grinning, before narrowing his eyes. A sure sign that he was about to show off his mean streak. “I know the real reason you don’t want to eat anymore sugar, Michael. You’re not as subtle as you think you are.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Michael mumbled, about to turn away and make a start on washing the dishes. Victor stopped him by grabbing hold of him and pulling him in close, brushing the hair out of his face.

“If you don’t want people to know what you’re sensitive about,” Victor drawled. “Then do a better job of hiding your zit cream. I have occasionally rifled through your serial killer trophy room of pomade tubs looking for a spare razor, you know.”

“Don’t… don’t go through my things!” Michael gasped. Victor just yanked him in closer, squeezing his arse for good measure, with a laugh.

“Then keep them somewhere other than my bathroom cabinet, Mickey,” he scoffed. “I swear to god, you’d think I live with four teenage girls with serious hair volumizing problems. Anyway, you worry too much. In both this area and every other.” He stroked a hand over Michael’s cheek, which Michael would regret to admit felt good. “I’ll still think you’re pretty, even if you start looking like the surface of the moon.” The moment ended. Michael gently smacked him on the shoulder, and squirmed free from Victor’s arms.

“You’re terrible,” he said. Victor kissed his cheek, and he smiled. “If you really want something else sweet –”

“I was hoping you’d offer. I think I’ve got another one in me after all.”

“Not that!” Michael sighed. “I was going to say that there is some chocolate cake in that cupboard there. I thought you might ask, so I chose to prepare.”

“Money in the rhyme jar,” Victor sung, looking to where he had pointed.

“Did I…? Oh, I suppose I did. Maybe one day it will end.” Victor was just in the process of discovering the cake box that Michael had directed him to. As he tore it open at the corner, there was a knock at the door. Michael’s blood froze. They were not expecting anyone. If Harry had decided to make a surprise visit after all, he might die.

“I’ll get it,” Victor said, shooting a cautious look towards the living room ahead, but Michael followed him without a second thought. The two of them reached the door at the same time, and Victor pulled it open, to the surprise of the man on the other side. His arm froze, raised mid-knock.

The man outside was a stranger, but the uniform made it clear what his purpose with them was. He was a courier. There was a large cardboard package to his side that matched with the outfit. Michael let himself relax. The man glanced between the two of them, erring.

“Are you… busy?” he asked, looking pointedly at the entire cake barely contained within its box that Victor had brought through under his arm.

“Depends what you got there,” Victor answered. He took a moment to put the cake down delicately on the floor by his feet. Now he just had to still remember it was there two minutes into the future, and avoid stepping on it.

“A delivery,” the courier said, sounding like he suspected that he was being pranked. He must have been paid a fortune to show up here on Christmas day. “It’s from a Harry Stewart. Does that make sense?” It did, Michael thought. It explained a lot.

“I’ll sign for it,” he said, taking the pen that was offered to him and scribbling out the slanting figure of his signature. Victor took the package with a grin and waved goodbye, dragging it over to the sofa to dismantle. Michael followed him, after making sure the courier was tipped and shut out of the house.

Michael leant in, expecting the worst, as Victor tore into the cardboard with all the excitement of an unsupervised ten-year-old. Harry could have sent over anything. Inside the mysterious box, there were two wrapped packages. Both were carefully and neatly done up to perfection. Certainly not prepared by Harry himself. He must have been very insistent with whatever poor shop assistant he forced to work their magic on the gifts.

The larger parcel, buried underneath a red spray of ribbon which tendrilled over the sides in all directions, had a card attached. When Michael flipped it over, it indicated that the gift was for him. It conveyed that and very little else. No sentiment needed. ‘For Michael, from H. Stewart’. How perfect a symbol of their relationship. Michael lifted the gift out of the cardboard and into his lap. It was squishy to touch, which meant it would be the same thing as ever. Opening the paper proved him right. Harry’s gift was a coat. Michael held it up to get a better look. Long and black, made of some fabric he could not perfectly identify. The generous buttons were solid and silver. Realistically, it would be too long on him. It was designed for someone of six foot, give or take. Regardless, Michael could tell that it was offensively expensive, and folded it carefully back into its paper, not wanting to risk doing the thing any harm.

“He got you a coat?” Victor asked. He gave a little snort and raised his eyebrows. Michael chose to ignore him. It was better than having to talk about it.

“I like it,” he said, deciding that he did.

“Then try it on,” Victor said. Michael’s fingers danced briefly over the fabric in his lap.

“Later.” He flipped over the card on the remaining gift, and saw that this one was addressed to Victor. The revelation made him flinch impulsively away from the package.

“Oh, is this for me?” Victor asked. He seemed far more excited than Michael would have been in his position. There was no way what was inside would be anything good. Victor snatched up the gift and read the card out loud. “Victor, enjoy this gift as thoroughly as possible. Harry.” He turned to Michael and wrinkled his nose. “What? Did your dad send me a tube of Vaseline for Christmas?”

“ _Victor!_ ” Michael snapped. That was not an image he needed in his head, as his burning cheeks proved. Victor shrugged and ripped the paper open.

“Ha!” Victor sneered down at the contents of the package. Michael leaned over to see what awful thing Harry had chosen, and sighed. Inside, being toyed back and forth in Victor’s hands, there was a hair comb. The design indicated that it, too, was criminally expensive for what it was. That was not the only thoughtful gift that Harry had picked out for his future son-in-law. He had also sent Victor a book titled ‘ _Getting Back into the Workforce_ : _Your Fool-proof Guide_ ’, and a carrot. A single carrot. All shoved together in one parcel.

“I’m… I’m sorry,” Michael began to stammer, but Victor snorted, brushing him off.

“Like I’m gonna turn down free stuff, Harry. He obviously doesn’t know me as well as he thinks he does.” Apparently, he was not embarrassed by the more than slightly passive-aggressive tone of the gifts. Victor waved the carrot under Michael’s nose. “You eat more vegetables than I do,” he said. “Though I grant him, he did find the most phallic one he could to remind me what he thinks of my diet choices.” Michael pushed the thing out of his face. Victor stared at him and bit the tip of the carrot off, chewing it purposefully until Michael had to turn his red face away.

“I think I’ll get some wine,” he mumbled. He heard the sound of Victor swallowing behind him as he retreated to the kitchen.

It did not take too long for the wine to wash away Michael’s anxiety, along with the last of his complaints and concerns about the day. It helped that Victor kept refilling his glass for him. He was tipsy and warm inside, enjoying a rare moment of feeling truly carefree. The two of them were settled down on the sofa. Victor had rescued the cake from the floor, opening it up as if the torn box was suddenly a piece of fine china. He dug into the cake with his hands, and when Michael complained, Victor shoved a handful of it into his face, and they ended up dissolving into giggles together. No other time but today would he have found that gesture funny.

Eventually, the TV seemed to turn itself on. Michael could not remember either of them making a conscious decision about it. Victor found the channel playing Black Christmas, which was just starting, and stuck it on in front of them. Michael sunk into the comfortable glow of being slightly drunk and full of food. Victor’s arm appeared to be around his shoulders, and he let himself lean into it. He was suddenly very sleepy.

As they half-watched the movie, Victor alternated between taking sips from the bottle by his feet, and starting and stopping rambling stories that he seemed to believe were somehow connected to Christmas. They usually were not. Michael did not care, and did not have the energy left to pay any attention to the outside world. He let his heavy eyes close, and curled up against Victor, slowly slipping away into sleep. It had been a much better day than he would have expected that morning, he had to admit. Just for this moment, if nothing else.


End file.
